


The Spy and the Specialist

by Ralkana



Category: Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson walks into a pub and meets Eliot Spencer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spy and the Specialist

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ _Leverage_ is owned by Electric Entertainment and TNT. Phil Coulson, Clint Barton, and SHIELD are owned by Marvel. Not my toys; I'm just playing with them.
> 
> Written for A Ficathon Walks Into a Bar.
> 
> Takes place before _Thor_ , and in the late second or early third season of _Leverage_.

 

Phil hesitates just outside the pub, pausing for a moment to center himself. He takes a deep breath, relaxing into a slump as he slowly lets it out. His shoulders round, arms hanging loose so that the sleeves of his ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit jacket cover his wrists and the tops of his hands. His shirt is artfully wrinkled, his garish tie just a little crooked. With another deep breath, he lets his face soften, just a little, to show the strain he always feels at the end of a long day, the fatigue he normally works hard to keep hidden.

He reaches up to tease a couple of strands of his hair out of order, sighing as he's reminded once again of how far his hairline has retreated.

Ready now, he pushes through the door into the warm glow within.

It's a weeknight, so the pub is not crowded, and Phil makes his way to the bar and orders a scotch on the rocks -- middle shelf quality rather than well or top shelf. When it comes, he smiles his thanks at the young woman tending bar, being careful to leave her a perfectly unremarkable middle-of-the-road tip. Scotch in hand, he slumps against the bar and half-turns to let his gaze roam the pub.

Eventually, he allows the laughter and loud conversations taking place at the dartboard to draw his attention. There are two young men -- kids, really, barely old enough to be in this place -- industriously hustling the meager crowd. They're amateurs, but they've managed to pull in a few really gullible, or possibly just really drunk, patrons. Phil watches as they home in on a new target. 

The man is stocky, dressed in worn jeans and a blue plaid workshirt over a plain t-shirt, with light brown shoulder length hair, a carefully crafted inebriated stagger, and wide blue eyes full of naivete. This man is _not_ an amateur, and his counter-hustle is a drawn-out and beautifully intricate maneuver. Phil watches as the man’s dart _miraculously_ hits the bullseye _again_ , and has to hide his fleeting grin behind his tumbler of scotch.

The kids finally realize they've been outplayed by a master, gesturing and posturing and complaining in raised voices as they hand over the cash they've fleeced throughout the night. The man who beat them -- Eliot Spencer, Phil's target for the night -- growls something threatening, and the amateurs finally subside and slink out of the pub.

Spencer stalks toward the bar and space opens up around him. The bar is still not crowded, but it's obvious the regulars are steering clear of what they see as a meeting, and Phil surmises that Spencer and his team must regularly use the pub as a meeting place.

The bartender slides a shot of Jack in Spencer’s direction as soon as he signals her. He glares at Phil, who eyes him back mildly. He is at his most unassuming, completely interchangeable with any of the other tired businessmen ending a long day at the bar, but Spencer's eyes are ice blue and piercing as they study him.

Phil gives him a friendly smile. Spencer might be intimidating to someone who hasn't been glared at by Nick Fury, Natasha Romanov, or Clint Barton, but he’s not even the scariest thing Phil’s faced down this week.

Spencer knocks back his shot. "You've been starin' at me forever, man."

"I was simply admiring your skills. At darts, of course."

The other man snorts. "Look, man, I know you ain't cruisin' me, so who do you work for?"

Phil stares at him, curious, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Really? We're gonna play this? You're Rangers, former -- it's been a while. You're not checkin' out anything else in here, only me, and I wanna know what you're doing here."

Phil is impressed, and something of it must show.

"Saw you walk in," Spencer tells him. "It's a very distinctive walk. But you’re a suit now, so which alphabet agency are you workin’ for, Sarge?"

Phil eyes him, unimpressed this time, and there is the faintest twinkle in the other man's eyes that says that was a lucky guess and now Spencer's just fucking with him.

He has two options. He can play dumb, and Spencer will clam up and disengage, or he can tell the truth. Given his reason for being here tonight, the truth seems the most efficient course of action. He finishes his scotch and sets his empty tumbler on the bar, offering his hand.

"Agent Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland -- "

"SHIELD,” Spencer interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. Phil withdraws his hand. “What the fuck does SHIELD want with me?"

"SHIELD has a use for your very unique and specific skillset, Mr. Spencer."

Spencer's face goes very still. He casually pulls the cash he hustled out of the kids from the pocket of his jacket and tucks it into the bartender's tip jar. "My services are no longer for sale. I don't need a job, and SHIELD couldn't pay me enough -- "

"Come now, Mr. Spencer, it's not about the money for you -- not anymore, and it hasn't been for some time."

Spencer's eyes widen just a fraction -- the only outward sign that the man is suddenly panicking -- and Phil offers him a reassuring smile.

"Your recent activities do not fall within SHIELD's jurisdiction, Mr. Spencer. You and your... colleagues have nothing to worry about from me."

"Right. And if I choose not to take what I'm sure is a very generous offer of employment, you'll just turn around and walk away. Without passing on that information to any... interested parties."

Phil folds his hands and leans on the bar, tilting his head to study the man. "I'll be frank with you, Mr. Spencer. SHIELD is not interested in your team's activities, legal or otherwise. If we were, we’d already have brought you in, given that we're aware of every job you've pulled since joining up with Mr. Ford and the others. In addition, we’re quite well-informed regarding many of the jobs you’ve taken on your own, and we've observed a certain... trend in your work. You are not the first good man to end up on the wrong side of the law and do what he can to mitigate the... damages. What I'm offering you is an opportunity to cross back over that line."

Spencer gives a cynical snort and signals the bartender again. She is wiping down the bar a respectful distance from them, but at his gesture, she pours him another shot and brings it over to him.

"Thanks, sugar."

She rolls her eyes at him as she returns to the other end of the bar, but it's fond rather than irritated.

Spencer tosses the shot back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "So what you're telling me is, I join up with you, SHIELD sends me out with a gun, and I'm just expected to believe that I'm working for the greater good. Yeah, I'm not buyin' that."

He sounds so much like another lost young man Phil used to know that he is struck by a sudden bolt of nostalgic longing. "As a contracted specialist, you would have access to the best intelligence and full discretion regarding which jobs you take."

Spencer glances toward the door as a young couple enters, and Phil's gaze follows. He instantly identifies them as Spencer’s known associates, Parker, NFN, and Hardison, Alec.

"Look, Coulson, I'm not interested, all right?" Spencer growls. "Go sell your bullshit somewhere else."

Phil nods agreeably. It was a long shot, but Spencer is a potential asset more than worth the trouble. He slips a hand into his pocket, and the other man tenses, and then relaxes as Phil pulls out a business card.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Spencer. Incidentally, it might please you to know that you are the second best darts player I've ever seen."

He feels a sense of fierce amusement as Spencer narrows his eyes, nostrils flaring in offense, just about as far from being pleased as it’s possible to be.

"Oh?"

Flipping the business card over, Phil jots his personal cell number on the back. "Yes. The best is a friend of mine, a man who used to run in the same circles you once did, I believe. If you ever need anything, Mr. Spencer, anything at all, even just a challenge at darts, I can be reached at this number, day or night."

Sliding the card onto the bar, Phil eases himself from the stool. He nods amiably at Spencer's colleagues, who are watching him curiously, and triumph sings through him as he catches slight movement out of the corner of his eye and knows Spencer has pocketed the card.

He slips out of the pub and starts walking. The Boston night air is cool, but not cold, and the short walk to his hotel nearby is pleasant.

Bypassing the elevator, he climbs to the third floor and knocks in a familiar pattern before entering his room.

There is a hockey game on television, the sound muted, and Clint glances up from where he's lounging on the room’s only bed. He grins.

"You know, Coulson, you're kind of adorable when you're all schlubby, just Joe Schmoe at the corner bar."

Phil rolls his eyes as he yanks at the terrible polyester tie. Clint sobers and slides off the bed, crossing the room. He takes both ends of the tie and uses them to keep Phil close, studying his face.

"You weren't successful, I can tell, but you're not exactly unhappy about it, either."

Phil shrugs, then slips out of the suit jacket. "Spencer would be an incredibly valuable asset to bring in, but I knew going in that it wasn't going to work."

He rests his forehead against Clint's. "He reminds me a lot of you, you know."

Clint's eyes narrow. "Only not nearly as good looking, you mean."

Phil grins slyly. "He's not hard to look at. All that stocky, solid muscle, and he's got gorgeous eyes..."

Clint narrows his own eyes -- so beautiful they regularly take Phil's breath away -- and Phil laughs.

"He's an ogre," he says mock-seriously, and Clint glares at him. Taking Clint's hand, Phil tugs him until they are both sitting on the edge of the bed. He stares down at their entwined hands, thinking for a moment. Clint waits, and Phil can feel the other man’s eyes on him, his concern and his curiosity.

"For a long time,” Phil says eventually, "Eliot Spencer was drifting, caught between what he needed to do and what he felt he should be doing. He's found his place now, found his own method of balancing the scales."

"He's found a team he can trust," Clint says, his voice soft, and his brow is furrowed with memories Phil's sorry to have brought up.

"He's found a family," Phil corrects him. "I'm just not sure he's figured that out yet."

Clint's grin is small but wry. "It's pretty hard to believe in something that good when it just falls in your lap. Give him time."

Phil tugs him close and brushes a kiss over his temple. Then he laughs as the memory of Spencer's offended face comes back to him. "He'll call, if only to challenge you to a game of darts."

Clint raises an eyebrow at him.

"I told him he was the second best darts player I've ever seen."

Clint laughs, his eyes widening in surprise. He laughs again, and Phil knows he's imagining what he would've done if Phil had told _him_ that. "Well, then, Spencer... bring it on..."

**END**


End file.
